


Incursion

by al_fa



Category: Inside Out (2015), Worm - Wildbow
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-16 02:11:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11244174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/al_fa/pseuds/al_fa
Summary: Growing up is even harder on Earth Bet. An inside look at a trigger event.





	Incursion

_Jack draws his knife du jour. It's a knife as might have been found in any kitchen: well-cared for, but nothing special. He had considered investing into a signature weapon, once, but had decided against it. A knife he shared his fame with would be irreplaceable. That sort of dependence turns tools into crutches._  
_He turns his head, studying what he likes to think of as his "ragtag bunch of misfits". One and all, they are monstrous, terrifying in an outstanding way, but inherently replaceable._  
_He smiles and considers the doorbell. Any of the ones behind him would kick the door in without a second thought. Sometimes, it's about that special touch, though. Keeps people on their toes._  
_It's about sending a message. That might as well have been his credo, the guiding principle of his life, the single justification each of his decisions derived from._  
_He rings the doorbell, putting on his Sunday smile._

The dust has been packed densely by centuries of footsteps. The light, merciless and omnipresent, has baked it hard and dry. Only irregular cracks caused by dehydration break the beige monotony.  
My steps resound clearly in the desert. No plants muffle, no buildings reflect the sounds of those impacts. I have yet to learn to tread softly on this hard ground, unlike my companions.  
I look up from my study of the ground, the movement shaking beads of sweat from my brow. In front of me, an endless line of grey-cloaked figures marches toward the horizon. Behind me, it continues until it reaches the opposite horizon. Each member of the caravan of the Unshaped is indistinguishable from any other. The Unshaped are at home in this desert. The dust that clings to every fibre of their sun-bleached cloaks is proof of it.  
"You're aware."  
Being spoken to is a surprise. I turn around and look at the Unshaped which addressed me. Despite the harsh light, the cowl of its cloak shrouds its face completely. For all I know, it might not have a face.  
Belatedly, I remember my manners. "I am. Thank you for taking care of me." The remark isn't meant for that individual Unshaped. They had tended to me as a community, if I can rely on my few memories. Somehow, in all the weeks I've been with them, I can't remember them ever stopping their trek.  
"We've almost reached it." The voice of the Unshaped is as colourless and without individualism as their appearance.  
"Reached what? I thought the Unshaped travelled in a circle." That is another piece of knowledge which appears to me without origin.  
"Just so. In the great circle, we have returned to the place where you fell from the sky."  
I strain my eyes, but cannot make out any distinguishing features. The desert is as flat as anywhere I've been, without any landmarks in sight.  
"How can you tell?", I ask.  
"We know the desert. I can feel it."  
I’ve never heard of an Unshaped using singular pronouns. They never distinguish themselves from the greater whole. This conversation has been unusual from the beginning, since the Unshaped took the initiative in addressing me. I study my conversation partner nervously.  
It reaches into its robe and retrieves a tattered, vibrantly green piece of cloth. "It's yours."  
"Mine?" The concept of personal property isn't something the Unshaped recognize.  
"You were wearing it when we found you. It's too damaged to be worn, but I feel I should return it nonetheless."  
I take it gratefully. Being given a present from an Unshaped is disquieting, but the soft cloth of the dress and its vibrant colour raise my spirits immediately. Somehow, it feels _right_.  
"Thank you." The name for what I'm feeling returns spontaneously. It's a warmth in my heart, deeper and calmer than happiness. It's joy.  
The Unshaped nods and collapses. Faster than I could even raise a finger to help, it crumples inward until nothing more than a small, empty pile of clothing is left of it.  
The caravan stops at once. From horizon to horizon, the Unshaped raise their arms and voices in unison. "Become", they sing, drawing out that single word in a vibrant basso, holding the second syllable in a crescendo until the desert itself seems to shake.  
From the pile of discarded cloth, an elfin face emerges. The brightly orange head is too big for the fragile body that follows, but the two-feet-tall-figure moves with an easy grace nonetheless. It raises its sharply-pointed nose to sniff the air twice and skitters off, moving perpendicular to the caravan's line.  
I've witnessed a Shaping, the process by which the Unshaped become what they were always meant to be. Did the Unshaped's gift toward me trigger the process, or was the kindly impulse a part of its emerging personality? No matter which it is, given the choice between staying the caravan or following my new friend, I choose the latter.  
It's still within a few hundred meters of the caravan, crouching down to retrieve something from the ground. Even from that distance, I can see light glint on a metal edge. The dagger seems to have been buried in one of the cracks in the desert floor. It raises the dagger, which is half as tall as itself, and tilts its head at me, grinning. Then it takes off at a run, leading me further away from the caravan.

The distance between us doesn't shrink. Somehow, the imp (as I've decided to call it) holds its own, its tiny legs flying. Within minutes, we reach the horizon, which would have been strange enough on its own. Compared to the landscape that now stretches before my eyes, it seems secondary.  
I might have called it a city, if it had been possible to recognize actual buildings. It might be more apt to describe it as something similar to a city, since the multicoloured geometrical structures are clearly made, not natural, but they are all over the place as far as their geometries go, their purpose inscrutable. Some sections are clearly divided by walls, and my eyes cling to those, as they're the only things I can really make sense of. Despite this strangeness, there's a sense of the familiar to this scenery, and I am reminded once again that most of my memories are still missing.  
When my gaze slides off the ground and moves toward the sky, I recoil. In contrast to the sky over the desert, it's filled with clouds. They're neither white nor dark, but some unholy melange of colours, seeming to glow from within. They do not keep still. They're not driven by any wind, but writhe, seething, like a cluster of worms in the sky, flickering in and out of existence.  
That mass of clouds takes the shape of an enormous disk centred on a familiar building, a spindly tower (home) which is tall enough that it reaches the clouds. On a closer look, it isn't quite that tall; rather, the clouds reach down toward the tower, enveloping its tip.  
I tear my eyes away with difficulty. The imp stands a hundred meters off, knife still in hand, and beckons. It's not just playing a game of tag. There's a purpose behind its Shaping, and that tower must be at the centre of it all.  
That knowledge lifts my spirits, and I run toward the imp once again with a wild grin on my face, almost tripping over myself in my haste. The imp turns away from me, ready to lead me further on this chase—  
as a tendril uncoils out of the mass of clouds above us—  
too fast for me to even _think_ of a warning—  
striking the ground with a crack of thunder—  
and tears the imp apart from within and without, grinding it into the rock, reducing it to a pale orange smear on the ground.  
The knife, clattering, comes to a rest.

A slice of time is missing when I come to my senses again. I'm still clutching the knife. Where my knees touch the ground, my robe is stained orange. Never before have I felt like this.  
I raise my head. There's something — someone else here. It's a mass of quivering, transparent jelly twice as tall as me. Only the way it moves makes clear that it's aware. A person, not a thing.  
"Did you see this." My voice is flat. I'm keeping it walled off from the torrents in my mind, trying hard to stay calm.  
"What do you mean?" The jelly's voice is high and shaking. Fragile.  
I gesture around me. "This mess."  
"It's... orange."  
Why does it hesitate? I want clarity.  
"Did you see how it happened?"  
"I- I don't remember."  
"Are you telling me you don't remember whether you saw the sky crushing my friend?" My feelings are flooding my voice and I know that's wrong, but I can't hold them back. The level-headed part of me—the observer—has lost control. "Were you there or not?"  
"I was, it's just that it wasn't..."  
"Wasn't what?"  
"Real."  
"It wasn't real?" This is too much.  
"I didn't see it."  
I open my balled fists slowly. The knife balances on one upturned palm as though it had been made for me. The other I raise toward the jelly.  
"This is the blood of my dear friend on my hands. This is his - this is the knife he found. Do you not see that?"  
"I —"  
"There's an ocean within me. I lack the words to describe it, but its every wave sends me tumbling. Do you deny that?"  
"I — It's not —" The jelly is now stuttering incoherently as its attempts to deny reality fall apart. It's dawning on me how much of a waste of time this is.  
"What do you even believe in, then?"  
"It's —"  
"Am I real?"  
"You —" I can feel its gaze on me. It regards my clothes, stained with what it must now recognize as blood. The knife. My face which I can feel twisting with emotions I cannot name.  
"You can't be", it finishes.  
"Are you?" As a witness, it's as implicated in this death as I am. I can feel its inner turmoil as it tries to resolve that paradox, and its fatalistic surrender as it discovers it cannot. Denying itself, it fades away.  
There's a new joy inside me now. I've faced opposition and won. It feels good. Purposeful. The joy makes it easy to stand up again.  
I gather my resolve, grip the knife tighter, and move onward. I have to reach that tower. I have to get home.

Before me is an enormous graveyard. It's no place of peaceful rest, where bones are buried in tended plots capped with marble gravestones. Rather, it's a place of dust and bones, where the primal reality of death is exposed for all to see. Some of those bones are tiny, reminding me uncomfortably of the friend I've lost. Others are massive, posthumous monuments.  
I walk in their shade. My steps are smaller, here, more timid. I know that nothing lives here, yet I feel cowed by an indefinable pressure.  
As soon as I realize how ridiculous that is, I walk faster again. There's nothing alive here, and I have a purpose to accomplish.  
Irony hits me with a balled fist on the back of my head. I fall, rolling onto my back more by instinct than conscious coordination.  
The assailant is a small, red figure. Its almost rectangular face is tightened into a perpetual mask of anger as it attacks with a flurry of blows.  
I tighten my grip on the knife and defend myself.

The small, angry red thing which had assaulted me bled out into the dust. In death, some semblance of reason returns to its eyes. A spark of recognition flares, and it utters a word.  
"Joy?"  
Memories flood back into my mind, and I understand. It's my name, my identity. I recognize the angry red figure, now: Anger, an old companion.  
The blood on my hands seems more vivid now. The reality of what has just happened batters me as though Anger's assault was only just beginning. I've killed him. Again, emotions overwhelm me. This is the same maelstrom I've felt when the imp died, and I have to find some anchor if I don't want to lose my mind.  
Joy. I have to find joy in this situation, something to be happy about. It's the foundation which had been torn from me, which I need to restore.  
I wrack my mind. It's hard to focus, but the search itself restores some coherence to my thoughts.  
What has happened? What ought to have happened?  
Self-defence. I've killed Anger, but he had clearly attacked me first. I've fought him off, subdued him despite his energy.  
I have a knife, and I can use it.  
My fingers run over the worn wooden grip which is still - like everything - slick and sticky with red blood. It feels right, somehow.  
I have a knife.  
I look down at my clothes. The drab grey has been covered with a vivid red, which, while not quite _my_ colour, is at least colourful. That, as well, seems right.  
My face eases into a familiar smile.

It doesn't take long to cross the rest of the graveyard. The sight of bones doesn't trouble me anymore after looking death in the face again. Though the footing the bones provide is not exactly steady, I am.  
The graveyard's edge is surrounded by a featureless white wall. It's high enough that it seems to touch the sky, and it doesn't make any sense that it didn't stand out to me in the scenery I had glimpsed before the imp's death. A sense of wonder overcomes me, and I recognize it as another kind of joy.  
Set into the wall is a black door. Like the wall, it's smooth and hard, and I have no delusions about being able to break through. I survey my surroundings searching for a key, and find a person instead. The figure is about as tall as me, as spindly and pale as a spider, and hiding ineffectively behind a pile of bones.  
"Do you know where I can find the key to that door?"  
"I do", it answers miserably.  
"Well, where, then?"  
"Are you sure you want to know? Can I not offer you some other information instead?"  
That was not the kind of answer I had expected. "Is there something wrong with that information? Would knowing it hurt me?"  
"It... it might hurt me."  
"I won't tell anyone else, unless I have to."  
"That's not the problem. Is there really nothing else I can tell you instead? These bones, for example. I could tell you where they come from."  
Nothing could interest me less right now, with the way forward in plain sight. Although... "Every single set of bones?"  
"Every one."  
"You sure know your way around this place, then."  
The figure's black beady eyes widen. It sees my trap now, but I already suspect that it doesn't lie. There's no way out.  
"I do."  
"You're the custodian of this place. The gravekeeper. I want you to open that door for me."  
"I don't want to, and I don't have to."  
"Why?"  
"It's my duty to keep those who come back outside until they are themselves again. You," its eyes flicker over my bloodstained clothes and the knife in my hand "you aren't stable."  
"You're evading. You told me about your duty, which might be an answer to the question of why you don't have to let me pass. But I want to know why you don't _want_ to."  
"My home's down there. You're dangerous."  
"But there's more than your home. There's also a way out, right? A path by which I can get closer to the tower at the centre of the city."  
"There is. I can show you other ways, though. Brighter ways."  
"Ways which are shorter?"  
"No. But I can offer you —"  
"I don't want anything you could offer me. Who cares about dust and bones? I need to get to the tower. I need to understand what's happening there."  
The custodian flinches. "I still won't open that door to you."  
By now, I understand him. There's a key to this situation, as there had been a key to the previous ones. The jelly had to be made to doubt its own existence. Anger had met his end by violence. The custodian was compelled by fear, and trying to resist it by bargaining.  
I raise my knife. This is something I've never done before, but the instincts are there, somehow, as though they had been transmitted to me through the knife's smooth handle. "Can you see this knife? I'm not adept at using it, but I don't need to be. You can see the blood."  
The custodian begins to whimper incoherently.  
"You've called me dangerous. Well, I might be. Do you really want me to be locked in this graveyard with you? Or do you want to see me pass through?"  
Still no answer. Reason doesn't seem to work as well as direct threats.  
"I can and will hurt you if you don't open that door _right now_."  
And just like that, the custodian scuttles over to open the door. The knife is a key. A skeleton key, one which can be used to open any door.  
I smile. So many uses for my tool, and so many talents sleeping in me which I've never known about. That is a cause for joy.

I don't let the custodian off the hook, given that he is the perfect guide. He can't give me incorrect information, and he knows the way. Finally, we come to the exit of what he has promised to be the shortest path, but blocking the cave's mouth is an enormous, pale figure. It's humanoid and obese enough that there is no way around it.  
I look behind me to see the custodian running away. This is supposed to be the next obstacle, then.  
"Move aside." Being commanding yields another small joy.  
The giant rumbles. "Ah, small one, why would I do that?"  
"I need to go through there. I'm on a mission."  
"A mission? What is it?"  
"I need to get to the tower."  
"The tower? Do you mean Headquarters?" An eye opens, studies her, and closes again. "You're one of them. You're Joy, aren't you?"  
"How do you know that name?"  
"Most everyone knows the primary emotions. You're different, though, from what you're supposed to be."  
"Primary emotion?" I frown. This is new to me, and being mystified is not pleasant. "You know more about me than I do. Tell me."  
"It doesn't matter. Nothing is real."  
That again? "What do you mean?"  
"You've forgotten that we're not in reality, little one. We're in Riley's mind."  
I know the words to be true. As it had been when Anger told me my name, memories come back to support that new knowledge. Headquarters and the console which controls Riley's feelings. She is my life's work.  
"But that just makes it more important! That's why I have to go there. I have to save Riley."  
"She's dying."  
"What?"  
"Even I have heard of the clouds above, by now. They kill, and every death is reflected in Riley herself."  
"And?"  
"When she dies, we cease to exist as well. It's inevitable."  
"Don't you want to prevent that?"  
"I don't want anything. Leave me alone."  
I shake my head. Everyone's so utterly irresponsible. "No. You've raised the stakes. I need to go through here right now if I want to be fast enough to save Riley. Look at my clothes."  
The eye opens again. "Blood."  
"If you don't let me through, I'll hurt you. Do you see that knife? I'm not an expert at using it, but I don't need to be. It's sharp, and it obeys me."  
"I still don't care."  
I sigh. "You really don't. You don't think of your own life or death with joy. Not Riley's life, either. Nothing has value for you."  
"You understand."  
"I'll never understand that. If you don't feel, you are a thing, not a person."  
"I don't care."  
But I can't be that easily dissuaded. I've found my purpose, and it's unyielding and definite. As rain seeks the ground, I will save Riley. There's joy in that thought.  
The knife will open the way again.  
I cut my way through.

Finally, I walk around the edge of the last of the shelves filled with glowing orbs, leaving me standing in a wide open space. A few meters from my position, the ground ends in a steep cliff encircling a seemingly bottomless abyss in the centre of which the tower stands. There are five bridges extending from the tower, but all of them end in floating islands disconnected from the cliff itself. I will have to find another way.  
Before I can think of a plan, something else catches my eye. To the left of me, a blue figure sits at the cliff, legs hanging over the edge. Sadness, my antithesis. The sight of her reminds me of countless frustrations. She has always been dominant, as far as the console was concerned. She has always pushed those countless buttons and levers with the aim of consolidating her power, keeping me from my rightful spot. As a result, she has grown larger and larger, towering over me even in appearance. And because of her, Riley has endured so much sadness.  
I grip the knife tighter and feel determination flow through me. No longer will I allow myself to be cowed by Sadness.  
"Hey, Miserable!" The nickname stems from simpler times, back when Riley had been happier, and Sadness less powerful.  
Sadness doesn't turn around. "Joy? Where have you been? Riley needs you."  
"It's just like you to push your expectations on others."  
"My expectations? I don't understand. This is about Riley, not me."  
"Yeah? What have you been doing for her lately?"  
"I've been grieving."  
I laugh. "You say that as though it's a task to be accomplished."  
"It is. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression. They're not always in that order, but they are important steps, necessary to deal with reality. To accept it."  
"You want to accept it? That thing taking over the sky, slaughtering as it pleases?"  
Sadness nods solemnly. "What else to do?"  
I point at the tip of the tower. "I'll get up there and kill it."  
"That would be suicide. Work through your anger. It will pass as Anger himself returns."  
"Anger? I don't feel any anger." I laugh as if to prove it. "I'm going to do it for the sheer joy of it."  
Sadness seems to consider and nods again. "We all do what we have to do. Go, then."  
But I can't let that stand. "You're trying to accept my plans like you accept everything else. You're wrong. Your acceptance is as ridiculous as any denial. You're not _doing_ anything."  
"I'm gathering my strength."  
"I don't believe that." Only after I've spoken do I realize how true that is. Sadness peacefully relinquishing her previous position of power doesn't make any sense at all. There's a more fitting explanation than the one Sadness herself has offered. "You've cut a deal, haven't you?"  
"A deal?"  
"All your talk of acceptance, of dealing with reality. You have been dealing, but with that thing. You've sold me out somehow."  
Sadness turns around, facing Joy for the first time. "What are you -"  
But I'm not listening anymore. I'm caught in the joy of understanding as all the pieces of the puzzle fall into place. My conclusions are unquestionably true.  
As I plant the knife in Sadness' chest and push her carcass over the edge, I feel the joy of doing the right thing.

Two dozen eyes have witnessed the murder. The small crowd of inhabitants hiding among the shelves has been drawn there by rumours of a monster. Covered in blue blood, the monster turns toward them, and they cower under her gaze.  
It’s easy for her to convince them to help her reach one of the islands.

Fear and Disgust are blocking the bridge to Headquarters. They have their arms crossed, trying their best to look resolute. The Entity has given them strange visions of a monster ravaging the lands beyond the abyss. Fear and Disgust aren't sure they understand the visions correctly. It had been confusing; they don't know _whom_ to expect. Fear's anxiety quickly turns to panic as the figure comes into view.  
Joy doesn't merely walk, but strides towards them, seeming to Fear like the general of a conquering army. Her smile shows all of her teeth.  
As she comes closer, Fear recoils. "Is that a knife? And what has happened to your clothes?"  
Somehow, Joy manages to stretch her grin yet further. "Oh, my outfit? After I lost the old dress, the Unshaped were kind enough to gift me one of their robes. It was drab, though, so I dyed it myself."  
"That's blood."  
"You use what you have on hand. The only bother is how dark it gets when it dries out. I've had to reapply it again and again."  
Fear's eyes widen as he recognizes a splatter of blue above what might once have been Anger's signature red. He glances at Disgust and knows that she has recognized it as well. "W-what do you want?"  
"I'll go up there and kill that thing."  
"N-no! It didn't mean to kill Anger and throw you and Sadness out, that was an accident. It put all those new buttons on the console, and now-"  
"I don't care."  
"Without it, Riley would have died already!"  
"I don't care."  
Fear takes a step back. Joy hasn't slowed down at all, and the way she's holding that knife...  
Impossibly, her smile widens once again. "Did I mention I'll be killing the both of you first?"

Joy's resolve almost falters as the console room comes into view. It's bigger than in her memories. The screen stretches further, and it's impossible not to notice the many new rows of buttons and levers. Even more present, however, is the Entity occupying most of the room, shifting multidimensionally, intersecting itself, fracturing the light in alien ways. It reaches down through the ceiling like a tendril, appendages on the console, directing Riley as she faces... a scene far worse than anything Joy has ever seen.  
The mangled corpse, barely recognizable as her mother, would have been enough, but on that tragedy, further horrors are piled: Riley's arms are in its intestines to the wrists, doing something Joy cannot bear to describe. With her in the room is a monster that beggars the imagination, only barely recognizable as having once been human, watching with unmasked glee. Worst of all, Riley's mother is still breathing, somehow.  
But Joy's own ordeals have made her strong. Even in the carnage she now witnesses, she can find the joy of everything Riley has already achieved to save her parents, the joy of being proud of Riley's resourcefulness and the joy of being alive. Her wish to preserve that joy gives her the strength to stand up.  
Joy attacks. The Entity barely struggles as Joy carves a piece out of it. Flesh means little to it.  
Following an impulse, Joy takes a bite. Strange thoughts flood her, and she can feel the entity flinch.  
She swallows the rest, and the Entity retreats into the sky, alive, but no longer dominant.  
Joy is left with the terminal and the strangely sure knowledge of how to operate the new levers.

_Jack Slash is currently drenched in about half a litre of splattered blood, most of which is artificial and has been improvised out of household materials. He's not smiling as he looks over the girl's shoulder at her gruesome work._  
_He knows that he needs to push her, to break her, but it's a delicate matter. Leaving her catatonic would accomplish little._  
_Her shoulders slump, her hands come to a rest, and he fears he has gone too far._  
_"No."_  
_"No?" What was she giving up on?_  
_"I don't love her."_  
_He relaxes. The rest is going to be easy._

The old levers are more difficult than the new ones. Joy doesn't have too much experience in controlling the console, and most of her memories are still missing. She makes do. The switch labeled “disaffectation” helps; the blue sadness gauge goes down. Finally, after a long time spent tinkering, she finds what she has been looking for, and Riley's smile mirrors her own.

Sadness pulls herself back together, quite literally. Blue motes of dust coalesce into her familiar, plump body, though it is somewhat smaller than it has last been.  
It takes a lot out of her, and in her weakened state, she follows her first instinct: She curls up into a ball and weeps.  
After she has calmed down somewhat, she takes inventory. One body, reasonably intact, considering she's just been dead. One set of memories, somewhat fragmented, but coming back quickly.  
She can't die. As one of the primary emotions, she knows of nothing that can kill her. About that knife, though, she hadn't been sure. Plummeting down into the abyss, her last thoughts had been about whether she would ever be whole again.  
She takes a look around. The graveyard of notions is where she's ended up. Bones and dust form great hills, reminding her that she's still alive.  
She folds her legs slowly and deliberately. The task lying before her is important and shouldn't be rushed. She has to stop Joy.  
First, however, she grieves. This time, she starts with anger.


End file.
